


Rumination

by ActuallyIronman27



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Like stupid deep I need therapy denial, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, men are dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyIronman27/pseuds/ActuallyIronman27
Summary: The war was over, and Uthred could not get Alfred out of his head.
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 30
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! The story starts at the end of 2x08. Its pretty much gonna be an AU! from there, and may in the future ignore season 3. I'm pretty sure I got the timeline and details right for this - except in this story, Gisela does not stay in Winchester while the Uthred and da bois go off to save the day. 
> 
> Just a quick note: this is the first thing I have actually written in nearly 8 years. All the unresolved tension between Alfred and Uthred literally inspired me to write again. So yeah, please don't judge me too harshly on the writing, I'm still getting used to it again. Anyway, enjoy!

He should leave.

That was a fact, of course, but that didn’t mean Uthred could move from his seat, could down his drink and walk away from the raucous crowd. It was late, and they needed to rise early tomorrow for the ride home but there was too much noise around him, too much dancing and song and well-

There was nothing left for him to do. 

Gisela was safe at home with his children. His friends were all here, across the tavern, warm and full and sated with ale. 

The princess was safe, home again. 

England was quiet, and Alfred-

Well. 

Alfred had released him, hadn’t him? He was free to go, he said. 

_Free to go as his oath man._

Right. 

Of course. 

What else would he be? 

_What else would Alfred the fucking Great want with the likes of him?_

It had been hours now since that moment in the throne room, but even now, under the silver frost of stars and in the shade of the tavern’s warmth, Uthred could not shake it off. All about him, the Saxons buzzed and danced, giddy with victory, mirth spilling over like gold, ale sour on his tongue - but he was still there, somehow, before the throne, before Alfred and his words.

He could see the king now, in his head, tall and poise and unflinching as a stone wall, confirming Odda’s doom. He remembered the room as it was, the soft, white sunlight trickling in through the narrow windows, clashing against the red and brown tapestries- the light had never done much for the room, and in that moment, it did even less, making the stone room colder and emptier than it had any right to be. The fires had been burning dull, and Aethelflaed’s kiss was still warm on his cheek - but it was nothing compared to the cold stone walls, the cold white of the throne, the cold blue of Alfred’s eyes. 

In that moment, nothing could have warmed him, nothing.

Alfred would not have allowed it. 

“Treachery cannot be ignored,” he had said simply enough then, voice crisp and firm as always, face unturning.

He had been talking about Odda, of course, but it was as if none of it mattered to him. Uthred could still remember the pause that came after, those few seconds that ticked by as he tried to comprehend Alfred’s words. He had raked his eyes all over him in that instant, in that second, and had found nothing - Alfred had just stood there, in that deep purple robe, skin sallow in the half-shadow light. His eyes had been red and glassy with fatigue, but his back was still ramrod straight, dark soft hair brushing against a furrowed brow. He had looked exhausted and weary beyond his years, but showed nothing else, no emotions, hailing Odda’s death into the room without even a flinch.

Uthred could still remember the way he clenched his hands behind his back, as always, imperious and proud and untouchable as the gods.

And gods had Uthred wanted to touch. 

_And touch, and touch, and always touch and feel his soft, pale skin upon my fingers, feel the paths of his hands, the nimble lines of his fingers stretched out against the pale, against my own like-_

_No, no, not touch, that’s wrong, that’s sick._

_No, Gods, he’s not a woman._

_No, no, I just wanted to stop him, didn’t I? I mean, if I could have just made him stop and feel and breathe - if I could have just touched him and brought him back to this world, away from maladies of his head, and realize what he was doing to Odda, to himself-_

Across the tavern tents, down by the wooden sticky bar, a group of men suddenly took to song, loud and off and brash against the night. 

The horrid sound pulled Uthred back to earth for a moment, the warmth trickling through, but only just, before he took another gulp of bitter ale, and fell back into the dream of it. 

Because that was what it felt like. A dream. That moment has been nothing but a dream. 

A stupid, terrible dream. 

In a breath, Uthred was back in the throne room, and he could remember his feet shifting back, and the words spilling into the quiet soft light without a thought.

“He is a good man.”

It had been the thing to say about Odda, a truth in itself – because what else was there to say? Alfred had been just standing there, cold and emotionless, and what else could Uthred have said to take him away from that choice, to try and save Odda’s life?

Because that was the whole point, was it not? That was why he was still here, hours later, sullen and quiet in his ale while the tavern danced away, trapped in the memory of Alfred’s gaze as the stars wheeled above– this was about Odda, and he had should have said more.

He should have touched Alfred, felt him, shake him, stop him, make him _see_ Odda again – and then, he could sleep and ride home tomorrow to tell Gisela that he had saved another good man, a loyal man. Loyal to Wessex, loyal always to Alfred, even in his most unbearable, conceited moments, and gods, without Odda…

Who would Alfred have left?

Who would protect him now, if he did this? Who would stay here by his side, in this dreadful, cold place? Among these stone walls and barren hearts – without Odda, who would Alfred have now? Aelswith?

_Well, yes. Aelswith. He would have her, as always, would he not? The loving, dutiful wife, the love of his life. The woman who would forgive him anything, the woman who would love him always._

_The woman who he loves, and will, till the end._

Ale poured down his throat like bitter gold, burning and churning with the sudden twist in his chest.

_Gods._

He needed another cup, he needed more and more ale, because if he had to sit here, after everything, and still think about Aelswith and her curled lips, her burning black eyes glaring contemptuously at him while Alfred gazed on, his shoulders just a tad bit looser –

For it was always different with Aelswith, was it not? He always looked at her differently, always spoke a little distinctly- and of course, that made sense. She was his wife. This is the way lords are with their wives – he saw enough of visiting lords and their wives to Bebbanburg, of Danes and their own wives, of Brida and Gisela, to know how it was. Men, lords, kings; they do not bow, they do not falter, but to their wives, one was perhaps allowed a modicum of affection.

With Aelswith, Alfred was allowed to feel, if only for a moment.

And Uthred always saw it.

_Of course I always fucking saw it._

The softer, slower hands.

The cold of his eyes giving away to just a flicker of warmth, of kindness, of soft, gentle affection as she spoke into the room.

The slight twitch at the corner of his lips, a moment’s smile slipping through.

Love. Simple and indisputable love trickling through, as he gazed upon the woman he loved.

And Uthred supposed that he was same with Gisela, if only far less subtly.

It was, after all, the same with all men. It was what one does with the woman one loved.

And Alfred loved Aelswith.

_I need another drink._

Across the tavern, one of the barmaids had finally started her way across to Uthred, swirling past the tables with a jug of ale. Somehow, the crowd around him had begun to get more boisterous, songs brashing out into the night as laughter crashed up into the thatched roof above, warm and sticky and full of unending life. Near the bar, Uthred could see Finan clearly now, standing on a table,regaling some tale, teeth sharp and glinting in the firelight. He couldn’t see the others much - the crowd seemed to have surged despite the hour - and now the air was getting too warm, the mud beneath his feet becoming softer and wetter and everything was starting to feel too close-

A rush of ale was poured into his mug, and Uthred did not hesitate to pour it all down his throat.

It was vile, it burned, and the moment he sat the mug down again, the cold of the night air was completely gone. He was having too much, he knew that now – it was getting too warm, and the people too loud, but he needed more, he needed more and more and more.

He did not want to think anymore.

He couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

Alfred loved Aelswith.

Alfred didn’t need Odda anymore – he will kill him, and it will break his heart, but he would not be alone with Aelswith there.

He would not be as safe – but he had her, and his children, and his throne and home. He had all of Wessex, and Uthred –

_Stop._

Another rush of ale.

_Stop thinking._

His mug was filled again.

_You are his oath man._

His words were back again, ringing in his ears, and his head was starting to spin.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

He was back in the throne room, in the warm fading afternoon light, his back to Alfred, his gut falling away.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

He could feel his eyes still upon his back, cold and cruel as ever with him – and it shouldn’t hurt this much, it shouldn’t feel like a damn knife plunging into his chest.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

The guards were watching him from the door, armours glinting against the dull light, and everything was falling away, his gut, his lungs, his chest caving and sinking and collapsing like an eternal pit.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

Alfred meant it as control, he meant is as a king – and for a second, for just a moment, everything inside him twisted and warped and curled, and the tumbling black clawed and tore and screamed.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

His tongue was bitter, and he could no longer feel his hands.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

It hurt.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

It hurt so much.

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

He was nothing to him. Nothing at all.

The ale did not taste like anything anymore.

“Uthred?”

Across the table, Father Beocca stood quietly against the bustling, jostling crowd, a mug in his hand, and his skin dark and ruddy in the dim firelight. Uthred had not seen him approach at all – and how could he, he was lost in his dreams – but now the priest stood there, his face twisted into a frown, waving a hand in front of Uthred's face for gods know how long.

Uthred could feel his eyes blinking, but his mind could barely catch up. There was something empty growing in his gut now. 

“Uthred? Are you alright?” Beocca asked again, his voice somehow reaching through the din, “Are you feeling unwell?”

_Yes._

“No, I’m alright,” Uthred replied, and he felt his mind slowly unfurling again, like vines reaching out of the black, anchoring on to his Beocca’s voice, “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“Then perhaps you should retire,” the priest retorted, his face breaking into a brief smile, “The night grows late.”

“Perhaps you should retire too then.”

“Ah yes, well,” and it was full smile now, an ale-laced one, as Beocca took the seat across the table, his elbow barely missing the head of the man behind him, “If only I could find it in myself to draw away from such merriment.”

Uthred found the rim of his cup again, and tipped down the last dredges of the ale. The air was still too warm.

“Merriment.”

_You are free to go, as my oath man._

“Well, of course,” Beocca replied, and his smile dimmed just a little, “It is not every day that a princess is saved, that Wessex is saved, Uthred.”

He could still feel the pit growing in his gut, that emptiness, sinking to his feet.

There was no more ale.

“If you say so.”

For a moment, Beocca said nothing else and simply looked at him, grey eyes flitting across his face as the crowd sang and roared and laughed all around them. Uthred didn’t care. Beocca could stare all he wanted, could analyse and inspect as he pleased – it made no difference. He just wanted ale – he needed to stop this, to forget, to stop _thinking_ about what happened earlier in the throne room, and he needed ale for that. He needed more. He needed something now, anything, to fill this emptiness in his gut, to stop his damn thoughts – because if he didn’t stop this now, if he kept thinking about-

_His face, his hands, his eyes, the way he looks at her, the way he looks at me, like I am nothing but shit beneath his feet, like I’m worthless, because I am-_

“What’s wrong?”

Irritation suddenly surged beneath Uthred’s skin, and he felt his mouth twist.

“Why do always assume that there is something wrong, Beocca?” Uthred snapped, “Can it not be that I simply wanted some fucking peace for once?”

The priest was unfazed.

“You never want peace,” he replied simply enough, smile gone now, “It is not in your nature. So tell me, then. Tell me what happened.”

Uthred felt the snarl choking his throat.

“You think too much, priest. Nothing has happened.”

“And yet here you are, sitting by yourself for hours now, not saying a word, not smiling, not happy, drinking yourself stupid-”

“I am celebrating.”

“No, you’re miserable,” Beocca replied, his grey eyes wide, “You have been all night. Uthred, you won. You have saved us all again – you are supposed to be _happy._ Or, at the very least, exhausted – but not bloody miserable! Has something happened? With Gisela? Is she alright?”

“Gisela’s fine,” Uthred’s head was starting to spin again, slower this time, but heavy, and he didn’t want to talk anymore, “Leave me alone, priest.”

“Was it Alfred?”

He felt the sigh heave through him like a grand wave on the ocean. The black pit inside was starting to claw up more – everything was dropping away.

“Uthred?”

“Go away, Beocca.”

“So it was Alfred.”

“Beocca,” and Uthred was so tired now. His head sunk down to rest on his hand for a moment, and he gazed up at the priest – Beocca still sat there, frowning, concerned, loving as always, and Uthred was just so _tired_. Beocca said nothing for a moment, but just looked at him, as he always did, watching and waiting, still and calm against the jostling sea behind – an anchor, a rock, steady and true as ever. His eyes were soft, and quiet – and for a moment, Uthred just wanted to go over and bury his face in his shoulder, like he did when he was child, when he needed to let go and cry-

_Enough._

_You are not a child anymore._

For a moment, neither spoke, as the tavern sang on in the warm light. The stars were spinning above, skipping along the edge of the darkened roofs.

Beocca’s eyes watched quietly in the flickering light, a soft, sad smile twitching at his lips.

“What did he do?”

Uthred wanted to laugh.

“What he has always done.”

“Did he not thank you, for everything?”

“What is there to thank?” Uthred said, “I merely did my duty, did I not? Kings do not thank their oath man, not truly.”

He could smell the ale of the priest’s breath as he sighed, eyes turning down for a moment.

“Uthred.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Uthred replied, and let a smile crack through – and even he could feel the jagged edges to it, “It is what he expects of me, and what I expect of him. There is nothing to be concerned about."

Beocca shook his head.

“And yet, you have saved his daughter,” he said, looking up again, eyes wide and warm, “You risked your life, again, for all of us-”

“It is Odda who risked his life to save us, and now will pay with it.”

“As you nearly did, in that field!” Beocca retorted, “You could have died too, Uthred, again-”

“I am a Dane, Beocca,” and now the snarl was back, the emptiness beneath twisting away, “This is what we do.”

“Yes, all in service to a Saxon king.”

“What do you want from me, priest?” Uthred burst, and even beyond the emptiness, beyond the slow spinning of his head, beyond the close warmth, he could feel a cold fury suddenly taking hold, gripping him tight, “What exactly do you want me to say here?”

“You could start with the truth,” Beocca replied. Uthred wanted to scream.

“There is _nothing_ to say.”

“Then are you so angry?”

“Because you are bothering me,” he choked back his yell, his hands clenching tight on the empty mug, “Because you will not leave me alone.”

“And yet I have said nothing truly to aggravate you,” Beocca shrugged, finally pulling a gulp of ale to his lips, “Your anger, your misery lies not with me.”

“I am tired of your sermons.”

“You hate him.”

Uthred felt the cold, black fury twist into a tight ball.

“What?”

“You hate Alfred,” Beocca replied, and sipped another from his mug, eyes watching over the rim, voice softer now, and gentle against the bright songs. Uthred didn’t respond. Not immediately. Without another word, he reached out and snatched the mug from Beocca’s hands. The man did not even protest – he just let it go – and Uthred drank it down, gulping the endless gold down his throat, tipping his head back and closing his eyes and willing every single other thought away. When he was done, he slammed the mug down, wiped his mouth – and felt the black pit inside him claw further up his throat.

_The ale’s not working._

_Why was it still not working?_

“Uthred?”

He could feel the bile start to burn the back of his throat. The world wasn’t spinning anymore.

“You already know this.”

“Oh?”

“You know I hate him, Beocca,” and the words spilled out now, the rage seething out across the table, Uthred’s hands clenched tight with the wrath that raced beneath his skin, fury clanging against his ribs, “I have made no secret of this, not to you. You have always known how I felt about Alfred the-fucking-great.”

“And yet here you are.”

“I came for Aethelflaed. _She_ called me.”

“Ah, so Alfred had nothing to do with it.”

“He-” Uthred paused, gritting his teeth, and Beocca looked too calm, folding his empty hands together on the table, watching him serenely amidst the howl of the tavern, “Of course he has nothing to do with this. He believes that I betrayed him, that I always undermind him-”

“You saved his daughter.”

“And do you think that matters to him?” Uthred laughed, and bitterness overwhelmed him, “I am a _beast_ , Beocca. That is all I am to him. Odda saved her too, saved us all, and Alfred will kill him for it. And yes, I know, its more complicated than that – but Odda is a _good man_ , and Alfred will kill him anyway. What do you think he would do with me then?”

“Uthred-”

“I am an oath man,” Uthred couldn’t stop now, “and all I have done, in Alfred’s eyes, is fulfil my destiny to him. I bring his daughter home, because I serve him. He sends me to Guthred, and I go, because I serve him. And when I rebel, in any form of way, it is because I am a brute, and must be caged. I am _nothing_ to him – a fool, a heathen, as he says, so why should he even bother to thank me for anything?”

“Uthred, he doesn’t actually-”

“He _despises_ me, Beocca,” and Uthred could feel everything fall away into the black pit now, the raw and terrible thing strangling his throat, a sob gripping his chest before he could breathe, “He is arrogant and cruel and _inhuman,_ and despite everything I have done, despite everything I have risked for him, he still looks at me like I am a fucking child. So why should I care what he thinks of me? I know this tale now, he has no heart. I will always be nothing to him – and never good enough, even though I have spent _so_ many years serving him, saving him, resenting him, loving-”

And Uthred could no longer breathe.

_No._

In a second, all the air rushed out of him, and his gut was gone, his heart was falling, and Beocca was just staring at him silently, eyes soft and sad in the flickering light. He couldn’t breathe – everything was seizing up, the claws were throttling his throat, and he didn’t say it, he couldn’t have, a lie, a slip of the tongue, he was too drunk-

_I’m drunk, that’s all. I am too drunk, and too angry, and this means nothing, he is nothing to me, and I am nothing to him, and I can’t get his fucking face out of my head, gods, I can’t do this-_

“Uthred, it’s alright. Calm down,” Beocca began but Uthred was surging to his feet now, shoving the table away, towards the priest, his head spinning as he moved. People had started to look at him, and Beocca was still talking – but Uthred did not care. He needed to get away, he needed to run.

“Uthred!”

He pushed his way through the crowd, terror flooding his chest as he moved, and shoved past the endless bodies, past the noise and warmth – and he needed air now, he needed to breathe and stop and forget. His legs were moving on his own, and he couldn’t hear anything anymore, nothing but a roaring crash in his ears, and the lights were spinning, and Beocca, Beocca had heard him, Beocca _knew-_

_And knows nothing, nothing happened, Alfred is nothing, gods help me, he is nothing-_

Uthred burst through the edge of the crowd, into the cold night air, and he just kept on moving, feet crashing through the mud. The heat, the crowd was falling away now, and he could see the stars clearly again – but Uthred could not stop. He didn’t know where to go – but he needed to leave. He needed to get away from everyone, because what happened back there was nothing. He was drunk, he was stupid-

_And Alfred. Always Alfred, in every thought and in every moment, he is the only thing I can feel-_

Beyond the ringing of his ears, in the distance, he could hear Beocca yelling his name. Uthred’s heart was racing, but he could not stop moving.

_This is insane, this is a lie, he is nothing, he is everything -gods, gods help me, this is wrong, this is not who I am-_

The whole world was spinning, and he couldn’t breathe, but he had to move, he had to walk away, because if anyone saw what he felt-

_His face, his hands, his eyes, where is he, I need him- he hates me, I hate him, I despise him, I can’t breathe-_

He couldn’t see clearly through darkness in front of him, through the sudden cold, and the terror– he couldn’t stop the ringing in his ears.

_This is wrong, no, this is wrong, I hate him, he is a bastard-_

He couldn’t feel his legs anymore, couldn’t feel anything but the chase of his thumping heart.

_He is nothing to me, he has to be nothing at all-_

Black claws squeezed around his throat.

_I am nothing to him. I don't want him._

He wanted to cry.

_I don't want him._

He wanted to scream.

_I don't want him._

Uthred began to run.

_I don't want him._

_I can't._


	2. Chapter 2

The keep was quiet.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, considering the hour, but even as Uthred stood there, frozen before the worn, grey steps, sweat still dripping down his back, he could not hear a sound. The castle was silent before him, a black, cold monolith sullen in the dark, towering over the muddy courtyard like a stone giant’s face; there were barely any torches still burning, and here, far away from the crowds, away from the songs and the warmth, all was shrouded in shade, the inky black night wrapped around the frozen stone world. The air was black ice, still and silent in the endless night.

Uthred was starting to get cold.

_Why am I here?_

_Fuck._

_Why do I always end up here?_

It had been less than 10 minutes since the tavern, since he was with Father Beocca – and somehow, his fleeing feet had taken him here, back to the castle, to Alfred’s home. He hadn’t been thinking when he ran – hell, he had no idea why he ran to begin with, like a fucking idiot –but now he was here, frozen in place, standing in the barren and cold castle yard, staring up at the silent, shadow keep. Up above, the moon was grinning softly, silver pale against the boundless ether – and yet not even that could give him peace, could comfort him and console him as he stood before the damned castle, feet frozen into the ground.

He could barely breathe. 

_Why do I always end up here?_

He had run, like a fool, blind and stupid, and now he stood before the castle like an errant child, scared stiff. He knew he had to go in and get some warmth – he was a world away from the taverns now, and here, in the deep heart of Winchester, everything was always black ice, the frost seeping through his boots, ice slowly gnawing through his bones. The run had done nothing to warm him, not here – the warmth of the ale had already fled, and the bitter air had somehow already stilled his spinning head. He didn’t feel drunk anymore – just cold now, impossibly cold, and he needed a fire, a hot bath, and his bed.

_And yes._

_Bed. Of course._

_That’s why I’m here._

Uthred sighed, and he could feel his shoulders lower just a little, his gut starting to unclench – because it made sense now, to have to come here. He understood it now. His bed was here; Alfred had given him and the others rooms in the keep, as usual, and really, running here, instinctively back to bed, back home to-

_Alfred._

Black claws tightened around his throat.

_No._

_To bed._

_To my room._

_That’s, that’s all – I got drunk, I got mad at Beocca for no reason, I ran like some child, for no fucking reason, and now, finally, my feet have taken me back to bed, and I will sleep, and come morrow I will go home to Gisela and-_

_And-_

The cold stars watched from above, silent and uncaring. 

Uthred felt like puking.

_Was Alfred asleep already?_

He needed to move.

With a rattling breath, ice coursing into his lungs, Uthred finally forced his bone-cold feet away from the muddy ground and up the stony steps. His body felt heavy and sluggish, and his heart was somehow still racing, but he finally moved, walking through the vaulted stone portico and up to the massive metal-green door. As he approached, he could see the two usual guards standing station by the door, grey armours dark in the deep shadows - and even as Uthred moved towards them, they did not deign to even look at him, standing close by their cool, dull braziers, eyes staring straight into the night. Uthred knew they had to have seen him standing out there in the courtyard for gods know how long, and he must have looked like a fucking stupid drunk –

_But hey, I saved the princess. I defeated the Danes, saved Wessex._

_I’m a fucking hero._

_And heroes are supposed to get drunk as shit after._

And he had gotten drunk. He was drunk. Or not. Maybe. Uthred wasn’t sure –as he walked pass the guards and pushed through the door into the castle keep, his head was clear, his hands cold, and he should have just stayed at the tavern and joined the others. He never should have gone off to drink by himself– he knew his head had been in a mess after the throne room, he knew the spiral, and he should have just ordered Finan to stick by his side from the start, to distract him with ale and song all night. He could have spared himself all of this. He could have been drinking stupid and laughing and happy with his friends now, thinking about absolutely nothing at all.

_Thinking about him._

Yet instead, he was here, closing the heavy doors behind him and walking down the shadowed hallways, back to his room, with claws still tight around his chest. All around him, warmth was slowly seeping back into his bones, the chill waning with every trudging step; in here, among the open courtyards, among the stained yellow walls and red-bricked pillars, torches flickered at every other step, warm flames frolicking in the dark, shadows leaping all about the old walls like dancers of black and gold. There was no one in the corridors, of course, not at this hour, not even guards really – and as Uthred walked through the gloomy shade, the red and clay walls seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, dark, silent corridors twisting and turning in the trembling firelight. At every other corner, he could see a guard, silent in the black, but as he moved deeper and deeper into the keep, into the murky gloom, Uthred could hear nothing but the thuds of his boots, and the soft rustling of his sword against his back.

Shadows dogged his every move, like a creature stalking him down the darkened hallways.

Uthred hated this place.

It was always like this here. In the dark, in the abyss of night, the castle always became like this – a ruin, a dark, hollow ruin of vaulting black chasms and cold, still silence. In the day, he could always count on hearing those fucking prayers echoing throughout the keep, on seeing lords and petitioners swarming about in their colours, on seeing Alfred – but now? In the dead of night? This place was a tomb, a mausoleum of stone and shade. There was nothing living here, not really, nothing but empty prayers to an empty god, nothing but judgment and derision, nothing but contempt and scorn and endless _revulsion_ -

Or maybe Uthred was just projecting.

Maybe this was just what the castle was to him. Maybe this place always felt like a tomb because all the stone walls, all the darkness, seemed to remind him of the catacombs beneath Bebbanburg – of all the times he had gotten lost in those crypts as a boy, of his father’s stony face when the servants found him later, crying in the dark.

Maybe the walls, the stone, the empty, just reminded him of bad memories, of childhood fears, of monsters and ghouls and silly, imaginary things.

Of home.

Maybe it was just him.

Or, maybe, Ragnar was right.

Maybe men like him, pagans, heathens, did not belong in Christian places like this. His gods were not here, after all. Odin, Thor – this was not their place. No, these halls, this crypt belonged to Alfred’s god – and he had never been welcomed here. Maybe that’s where all the constant dread and disquiet came from. Maybe that’s why these halls always felt so cold and empty. He did not belong here. Alfred’s god did not care for him – he was a heathen, an animal. Animals were supposed to be crawling outside in the mud, on their knees, before a jeering crowd. Animals were not supposed to be in here, beside God’s children, beside the king.

Animals were not supposed to stand beside Alfred.

_Unless you were a dog._

_Hah._

_Alfred’s dog._

_Isn’t that what one of the Danes once called me? Alfred’s savage? Alfred’s beast?_

As Uthred walked down the murky halls, his footsteps echoing in the cool dark, he could feel the pit of his stomach starting to clench again.

_Was it Brida who called me that? Alfred’s beast?_

_Alfred’s pet?_

The invisible black hands, the shadows around his chest tightened ever so slightly.

_Was she wrong?_

He had to stop thinking.

_Of course not._

He needed to sleep.

_Fuck._

As Uthred turned down yet another corner, plunging into another dark, half-lit world, he could feel the spiral, the madness starting up again, like an itch beneath his skin – and it was stupid, how quickly he went from thinking about Bebbanburg, to Alfred, how everything in his head always somehow ended up back to _him,_ and the noise in his head was just getting louder now-

_Because I already knew this. I already know what I am to Alfred – Brida was always right._

_I have always been his stupid, errant pet, and tonight is no different. Saving his daughter changed nothing – of course it didn’t. Why the fuck did I ever expect it would? Did I think he would reward me with praise? That maybe, just for once, he would actually look at me, really look-_

His gut was twisting and coiling into a tighter knot, like a writhing snake. 

_No, no that’s not what I- this is stupid. This is pointless. Why am I still thinking about him?_

He could feel the blood racing beneath his skin now, like rushing red.

_I just- that’s not what I meant. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I am nothing to him, and he is nothing to me._

Shadows leapt along with his every step, faces cackling in the black.

_I saved her for him, didn’t I?_

Claws crushed his throat.

 _Aethelflaed_.

_I saved Aethelflaed for him._

Uthred had no idea which part of the keep he was in anymore. All around him, darkness swirled, his feet lost to the rhythms of the void - and Uthred had always known from the start that it had never been about Aethelflaed. She was a good woman, he knew that. She had grown up so strong, and when she asked him for help, he had known that the only right thing to do was to risk everything and save her life. It was what good men did, what heroes did – but that hadn’t been his first thought.

That wasn’t really why he went after her.

_No, it was for him._

_It is always for him._

That was all he could think about then, and hells, it was all he could think about now.

_Alfred._

Alfred everywhere.

Alfred always, and always, in every thought and dream.

Uthred wanted to hurl.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

He couldn’t keep coming back here, and dancing to the same bloody tune every single time – he couldn’t keep trying and failing to think about him, to do everything for him because it just didn’t work. His daughter, a good woman, called out for aid, and Uthred could only think of him. The galley ships whisked him away to a year of endless suffering, to Halig’s tortuous end, and Alfred’s face, Alfred’s eyes, Alfred’s hands were the only things that could moor him. Iseult’s death, his baby son’s death – all that pain, all that endless agony, and Alfred stayed there, always in his head, rooted so deep beneath his skin that Uthred did not understand how it came to be like this.

How _did_ it come to this? How did this impossible, cruel man imbed himself so deep within him that nothing, nothing in this world could even begin to compare?

All Alfred had ever done was hate him. All Alfred ever did was judged, and loathed, and despised him –

_And yet he is everywhere, and everything. He is in every thought I have._

_He lives beneath my skin._

_I want to touch his skin._

_His hands._

_His face._

_The curve of his cheeks._

_His soft brown hair between my fingers-_

He had to stop. 

For a moment, Uthred froze still in the dark, heart rattling against his chest; all around him, the darkened walls were closing in, torches flickering faintly at the edges, and his breath was too short, his chest seizing and crawling up his throat as he tried to think and breathe and _stop._ He could feel his breath shuddering out of his lips as he tried to calm himself, to turn his mind away– because he really had to stop now. He couldn’t keep doing this. No, no more – he needed to stop _thinking_.

He needed to go to bed.

He had to sleep now, and forget and go home.

He had to _stop._

And that was when he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Uthred saw a light burning a little brighter than any of the other torches; it came from down the left corridor, spilling out of an ajar doorway like a gleam of sunlight in the dark, For a moment, Uthred thought that he had somehow left a brazier burning in his room, that he had forgotten to close the door – but no, no, this wasn’t his room. Hells, this wasn’t even anywhere near his room – with a start, Uthred suddenly realized that somehow, in the dark, in the midst of his wilding thoughts, he had ended up on the other side of the keep, half a world away from his bed. He must have made a wrong turn somewhere, because he was two hallways down from the throne room now, and that light was coming from the library.

From Alfred’s library.

Someone was in there.

In the darkness of the keep, in the still, black silence, Uthred could hear a soft rustling sound now, coming from behind the agape door. It was so quiet, and brief, like the sound of a heavy clock brushing against the stone floor, or perhaps the roll of parchment, but it was movement nevertheless, life, stirring quietly behind the metal door. Uthred knew without a doubt that someone was in there – and it could be one of Alfred’s scribes, hard at work even at this hour. Except, of course, he knew that wasn’t the case.

He knew that Alfred didn’t like anyone to be in his library after supper. The library then was for him and him alone – no one else was welcomed there after dark. His daughter, maybe, when she was a child, but not scribes, or anyone else. No, in the abyss of night, the library belonged only to the king.

Uthred wasn’t even sure how he knew that. He just did.

He knew it wasn’t a scribe in there.

He knew it was Alfred.

He should go to bed.

_Fuck._

For a moment, he just stood there, frozen, staring at the ajar door as his heart thumped and screamed in his chest; he needed to walk away now, he needed to go to bed because this was dangerous, this was bad. Alfred was _here_. Alfred was _awake_. Fuck, no, this wasn’t the plan. Uthred wasn’t supposed to see him again – no, he was supposed to get drunk, go to bed, go home tomorrow to Gisela and not talk or bide or think about Alfred until the next time he was summoned again. That was the plan. The throne room was meant to be the last time he saw him. Alfred wasn’t supposed to be here. Alfred wasn’t supposed to be awake.

And yet here he was, behind that metal door, the only sound and light in the dark, black keep. Uthred could feel the claws tighten so terribly around his throat. He felt like hurling again.

 _He’s not supposed to be here._ He could feel his feet suddenly stepping forward, towards the iron door.

_I can turn around. I can walk away, find my way back to my room. He doesn’t need to know I’m here._

His heart was thumping wildly beneath, his breath too short, too cold, feet somehow still sure as they moved towards him.

_Walk away. Why am I not walking away? There is nothing else to say to him. Nothing that he will understand._

The sliver of firelight from the room beyond touched his face, and he could hear it now, a soft scratching sound between the rustles, metal against vellum.

_Don’t do this. Please. Just go to bed. Leave him. He doesn’t want you._

Warmth spilled out of the room like gentle gold, and everything inside of Uthred _ached._

_Please._

_Stop._

He could barely breathe.

_Is this fate?_

He needed to see his face.

_Is this my fate?_

Uthred pushed through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the late update, and sorry it was just a short chapter - like I said previously, Im still getting used to writing again and with work and everything, this was such a beast to write. It was meant to be a longer chapter, but I figured I just add a little character study, and save the juicy bits for Chapter 3 (wink).
> 
> Anyway, thanks for your comments and kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

Uthred could count the number of times he had been in this room on a single hand.

It was not that he never wanted to be here – in all the years he had been in this place, in this wretched keep, Uthred had passed by the library’s doors so many times, peering in to catch a glimpse of the red-baked walls and grey, dark scrolls. He had never really been allowed in the library itself. Alfred had only ever let him in a few times; a summon, always, to stand there and listen to his orders as he worked among his scrolls, too busy to leave the room for Uthred, to busy to even look at him.

It was here, after all, that Alfred had summoned him to all those years ago, before his intended fight to the death with Leofric. It was here that Alfred had tricked him, had forced him to go to his knees like some fucking thrall, and pledge his freedom for Ragnar’s. It was here that he first truly met Alfred, with Brida by his side, cold, indifferent blue eyes staring calmly down on him as he hailed him “Uthred of Nowhere.”

_Nothing but fucking shit memories._

No, Uthred could not have been in here more than four times. The library, these scrolls, these walls were sacred to Alfred. It had always been – and Uthred had never been worthy of it. Of him.

 _No dogs in the library, as they say._

And yet now, as Uthred stood quietly in the library, there was something vaguely familiar about the walls, something warm and comforting, like a hearth ablaze. All around him, red walls glowed dark and true, warm firelight brushing gently against crimson depths; there were barely any torches burning in here, candlelight trembling softly instead about the dark walls, shadows chasing up to vaulted rooftops. In the day, light always fell in from the square windows, breathing life into the room, but now, only shadows prevailed, candlelight dancing with the deep black, spectres and shades watching silently from the darkened corners. All about him, Uthred could see scrolls and parchments everywhere, shelves stocked high with endless words, parchments tacked to walls - and the air smelt like them too, a dark, musty smell, mingling with the soft burning of wick. In the dark, shadows watched, and the red walls felt warm and safe, sheltered, a little nest of parchment and candlelight.

Uthred could feel the warmth slowly start to wrap around his bones, like liquid gold.

He could feel the panic of his mind start to wind down again.

Alfred was here.

Across the room, Uthred could see the king sitting quietly at the far desk, the dark window framed against his back. He hadn’t looked up when Uthred came in, and didn’t bother to look up now; he was bent over the table, head bowed over a grey, thin parchment, the quill in his hand scratching quietly across the shadow page. All about him, the table was covered in scrolls, just like the others, and a single candle sat upon it, flickering faintly into the dark red room; there was no wind, no breeze in here but Uthred could see the candlelight quivering about Alfred’s face, and-

And-

_Gods._

For a moment, all Uthred could do was watch him.

_Fucking hells._

In the gloom of the shade, in the half-lit world, Alfred looked quiet and calm and serene, orange candlelight flickering about the sharp panes of his face; his eyes were hooded as usual, downcast onto his words, half-hidden in the dark, and his brow was furrowed as he wrote, strands of dark brown hair falling gently into his face. He was wearing his usual grey robes, collar stiff and sleeves pale, but in the wavering candlelight, his skin looked unusually warm and dark; his hands were large and sure, moving across the page, and even from afar, Uthred could see the dark of his lashes trembling against his cheeks, the sweep of his soft, neat hair framed around his face. Shadows and light played all about the curve of his cheeks, the sharp of his nose – and Uthred just stood there, quiet, numb, watching as the king wrote in peace.

Because truly, how was he was supposed to look away?

How was he supposed to speak up and break that peace, because Alfred looked-

He looked good. He looked well. He looked serene and calm and so much better than he had in the throne room. He was in his bed robes now, but he didn’t look as tired, as haunted as he had then. No, he looked more relaxed, more content, and-

And-

_Beautiful._

Uthred could feel his stomach twist and crumble, plunging into the black as Alfred kept writing quietly, unaware of his very presence.

 _Beautiful._

His chest was too tight, and he felt like some idiot, like some love-sick child.

_Beautiful._

Man didn’t find other man beautiful. Women were beautiful. Gisela was beautiful.

_Beautiful._

He couldn’t stop looking at him. His skin looked so soft, even now, in the dark.

_Beautiful._

He wanted it to stop hurting, to stop aching like this.

_Beautiful._

“You’re early,” Alfred said, and Uthred blinked. The king was still writing, his quill scratching away, but now his eyes flitted up for a moment, and then back to work. It had been quick, a flutter of brilliant blue, but Uthred should have known that Alfred had been aware of him the entire time, that as usual, he had just simply ignored him. 

He could feel the blood rushing up to his cheeks, and he felt like a fool, like some stupid child.

_Did he know I was staring the entire time?_

_Is he -no, fuck, why the fuck am I here?_

“Early?” Uthred somehow found himself answering back, and he had no idea where he found the breath for it, his heart thundering away, “I don’t understand, Lord. Early to what?”

Alfred’s voice rang back steady and true, clear in the silent room.

“Early back, I mean” he said, and his eyes stayed down on his writings, “I had figured you and your friends would have much to celebrate tonight.” From afar, Uthred could see Alfred lift a hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind his ear, pushing them back out of his face. The single candlelight on his desk flickered and twirled like a song.

Uthred’s tongue felt dry and dead in his mouth.

_Go to bed._

He had to force himself to speak, to say something, anything back.

“I was tired, Lord.”

“Tired?”

“Yes,” Uthred replied, and felt himself swallowing past the dry spell in his throat, his gut empty, “We have to leave early tomorrow.”

The corner of Alfred’s lips twitched.

“And since when has that stopped you?”

“Lord?”

The scratching of the quill slowed a little.

  
“I just seem to recall your odd propensity to drink all night, and go into the battle the next morn, that’s all,” Alfred said, and now his blue eyes flickered up again, dark and beautiful in the gloom, watching him for just a moment longer before going back to his work, “Surely you have not aged that much.”

For a moment, Uthred did not really know what to say. It was too light-hearted, too easy – and when he didn’t respond, Alfred looked up at him again, his quill pausing. His face was blank and emotionless, as always, but his lips twitched a little bit more, a sliver of a smile sneaking onto his lips.

Uthred couldn’t breathe.

_Gods._

“Have I struck a nerve?”

_He looks so relaxed._

“No, Lord,” Uthred said, the words strange and heavy on his tongue, “It’s just…I just did not expect to find you like this.”

“Nonsense,” Alfred snorted, and just like that, that small, impossible dream of a smile dashed away as he bent back down on his words, his quill scratching again, “I am the king. I do not have time nor the inclination for sleep, not when there is so much to be done.”

“No, that is not what I meant.”

“No?” Alfred sighed, his brow furrowing, “Pray, what did you mean then?”

“It’s just,” and Uthred found himself swaying forward, his feet moving slowly through the dark without thought, his chest tight and twisting into a knot, “You seem…better.”

Blue eyes flickered up again.

“Better?”

There was a slight edge to his voice now.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

“Content, I mean,” Uthred replied, and he had no idea what he was saying anymore, “Happier. I just…I thought you would still be upset.”

Shadows twirled and leaped about Alfred’s face.

“And why on earth would I be upset?” and he looked up at Uthred fully now, eyes calm and blank, his voice turning a little cooler, “I have no reason whatsoever to be upset tonight. My daughter is safe. Wessex is safe. Our alliance, her marriage with Mercia holds fast, and now our paths will proceed as God intends.”

“I suppose.”

“The world is as ordered again.”

“Yes.”

“Then, there is nothing to be upset about,” Alfred said, and in the candlelight, his skin looked so warm, his voice firm and distant, “England is safe. That is all I desire.”

Uthred didn’t answer.

For a moment, Alfred held his gaze, eyes impossibly dark in the trembling candlelight, and then he returned to his work, back ramrod straight. In those few seconds, in just a few words, all traces of any smile, of any peace had vanished, and now he sat with a cold turn to his lips, his quill scratching again. His shoulders were rising up to his ears – and Uthred felt lost, he couldn’t understand. He had said something wrong, he knew that –

_I should have just gone to fucking bed-_

But what the hell did he actually say wrong now? Why did it always fucking feel like this with him? Why did it always feel like every step was in a mire -that one wrong word, one wrong whisper, and Alfred-the-fucking-Great would turn on him as he did now, cold and distant in a matter of seconds? He had been at peace with his work, here in his library and Uthred had ruined it somehow – with what? With his very presence?

Why the hell was Uthred still even here? Why the hell did he even bother to come in here?

_Why the fuck does Alfred have to always be this way?_

In a breath, frustration suddenly overwhelmed him, and Uthred found himself moving a few more steps towards Alfred, his chest twisting away. The words spilled out now, without even a thought.

“And what about Aethelflaed?”

“What about her?

“Will she stay here in Wessex, Lord?” Uthred said, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to calm down, to shove away that surge of irritation as Alfred kept writing on his parchments, strands of hair falling into his face again, “It may do her some good to be with her family now, after everything.”

Alfred didn’t bother to look up at him this time.

“Aethelflaed is the lady of Mercia,” the king replied, his face barely stirring, “She belongs in Mercia with her husband.”

“Surely her mother wants her here, after everything.”

“I do not see how that is any of your business.”

“It was merely a suggestion, Lord.”

“Yes, and yet I did not ask for it.”

“Lord-”

“Is there a reason why you decided to come into my library, Uthred?” and he could now see Alfred’s fingers tighten around his quill even more, “I do not recall summoning you here.”

_Fucking hell._

Uthred had to physically swallow away the retort, the frustration, the annoyance within him beginning to seethe.

_Impossible, fucking man._

He could see the candlelight shivering along the panes of his face, along the soft curves of his cheeks.

_Fuck._

He wondered what it would feel like to drag his thumb there, to follow the curve of his cheekbones with his fingers, to feel the soft, warm skin and the rough of his beard-

_Stop._

He let the frustration take over.

“Forgive me, Lord, but I was simply asking after your daughter,” he bit back, and Uthred could feel everything inside of him beginning to howl again, his guts wrenching, his jaw setting, “I just wanted to make sure that she will be alright.”

Alfred’s blue eyes suddenly looked up, and they were dark and cold as ever.

“And why does that matter to you?” he replied, his quill stopping again, his voice suddenly harder and more brittle, like a shard of glass, “How does my daughter’s well-being concern you?”

“Well, you are my king, Lord,” Uthred clenched his teeth, “And Lady of Mercia or not, she is still the princess of Wessex. Should not every loyal _oathman_ be concerned about the princess’s well-being?”

In the candlelight, Alfred’s lips started to thin, a muscle jumping at his jaw. Uthred stopped walking, and leaned up against the nearest shelf, easing his shoulders back, crossing his arms- he had to pretend he didn’t care, that he didn’t feel anything at all. Everything inside of him was thrashing and roiling, and Alfred looked pissed.

His voice was like broken ice.

“Is that what you are, then? A loyal oathman?”

Uthred wanted to scream.

“I can accompany her to Mercia for you,” he said, keeping his voice firm, “It’s a long way, but my men and I can escort her-”

“She has her husband for that.”

“Yes, because the great Lord of Mercia has done well to protect her before-”

“Aethelflaed is none of your business, Uthred,” and Alfred suddenly slammed the quill down onto the table, a loud thud echoing throughout the silent, shadowy room, blue eyes burning dark and furious, “She is not yours to worry over.”

Everything inside of Uthred froze to a stop.

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?”

“You can go now.”

“ _No_ ,” and Uthred couldn’t stop himself now, because the rage had taken over, a flood of red-hot fury overwhelming him within a breath. He didn’t even think, he just surged forward, moving without pause, everything inside of him screaming and howling as the blood roared in his ears – because _fuck_ this, he knew what this was now. He knew what Alfred was trying say, and it was, it was-

“I said you can go.”

“No, answer me,” he gritted, and he could barely control himself as he stormed up to the table, his blood howling as Alfred just sat there, lips twisted, hooded eyes watching him approach without flinching, without remorse, “What the fuck are you saying?”

Contempt was spelled on every line of Alfred’s face. Uthred had to force himself to stop before the table, to not slam his hands down on the desk, to not fucking roar.

He could feel his jaw clench to a painful wince.

_He doesn’t mean this._

Blood raced beneath his skin, and he could barely keep his voice down.

_He can’t mean this._

Alfred’s voice was dark.

“Need I remind you that you are speaking to your king?” he said, and every inch of him, every flicker of candlelight on his face was laced with wrath, silent, burning rage writhing just beneath the surface, his hands flat on the desk. Uthred could see nothing but red.

“Then explain yourself,” his voice was rising, “Explain what the fuck you meant-”

“ _Get out._ ”

“No, tell me. Tell me what you meant-”

“I am your king!”

“Then tell me!” And Uthred was yelling now, the air hot in his lungs, his chest tight, rage gnashing its teeth as Alfred glared back at him, “Tell me what you think about me, my Lord. Tell me what you _really_ think about me.”

Alfred paused.

For a moment, he sat silent, eyes raging black – and then he surged to his feet, quick like a storm, candlelight shaking as the table jolted with his force. Fists clenched upon the parchment as he leaned against the desk now, blue vicious eyes glaring level at Uthred’s, as rage lined his entire body.

Uthred could feel the wrath blistering off him, into the warmth of the room.His face was suddenly very close.

“Fine,” Alfred said, and Uthred could feel his breath now, warm and short, brushing slightly against his cheek, “Do you want to know what I think?”

Grief ached beneath his howling rage.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why you did it,” and his voice was like poison, dark and low, “I told you to stay away and you disobeyed me. You sent your spies to Beamfloat without my leave-”

“I told you-”

“-and then you sneak in and save her, without my leave, and that, that I do not understand. You had no reason whatsoever to save her, you could have just stayed in Coccham, like I ordered – and yet you still risked your life for her-”

“What is this, Lord-”

“Your actions these past few weeks do not make any sense, Uthred,” Alfred snarled, and he wasn’t even trying to calm down anymore, to pull back and rein in his fury, all pretence of propriety gone, “I have spent these past few nights since praying over it, but God has yet to give me clarity. Odda’s actions, you see, _they_ make sense. In his own misguided way, he acted only because he believes that it was necessary for the sake of England-”

“Lord-”

“But you believe in nothing,” he said, and Uthred could feel everything inside of him plunge away, sorrow rattling his ribs as Alfred’s voice pierced cold into the room, “You are not her personal guard, you are not bound to her. Reward was never guaranteed –possible, yes, but a small possibility, not perhaps enough for you to risk your life. What could it have been then? Hubris? Ego?”

Uthred could feel the rage racing beneath his skin, his breath too short, his heart thundering. Grief was climbing up his throat like black claws.

_Just say it._

He could count the dark lashes on Alfred’s cheek, each blink a soft, slow flutter.

_Just say what you mean._

“Lord, if you would let me speak-”

“I thought that was the case, until today,” everything inside of Uthred wanted to reach out and touch him, to shake him, as Alfred leaned even closer, blue eyes cold and dark and empty, “Your ego, your selfishness. You saved my daughter because you wanted to be the hero, as always, and I can understand that, I can _forgive_ that-”

“Lord, listen-”

“But then I saw you both in the throne room today. And in the moment, I did not make much of it. But it makes sense, does it not? What else would drive a man such as you to risk his life for my daughter? She has grown into a beautiful woman-”

“ _Lord-_ ”

“Have you bedded her?” and something maniac and frantic alight in Alfred’s eyes now, “Is that what happened? Did you somehow manage to manipulate my daughter into bed with you? Or was this your purpose all along-”

And Uthred grabbed him.

In a flash of red, Uthred reached out and seized Alfred by his collar. He wasn’t thinking – he just grabbed him, both hands grasping into his tunic, nails digging as he hauled him halfway across the table. A small gasp spilled from Alfred’s lips as half of his body fell across the desk, the candle shaking dangerously, scrolls scattering; his hands flew up to Uthred’s, at his neck, his eyes wide and shocked, but Uthred just dragged his face to his, blood screaming red and violent in his ears. Alfred’s hands gripped his wrists instinctively, and he looked completely taken aback, completely stunned – but Uthred didn’t care anymore.

_Fuck him._

A sob choked his throat. 

_Fuck him._

His fingers dug into the soft cream of his neck.

_Fuck him._

He wanted to cry.

For a moment, for just a second, Alfred was completely silent. They stood there frozen – Uthred’s hands clasped tight around his collar, their faces less than an inch apart. The room was deathly silent, and Uthred could feel Alfred’s soft pants against his lips; his breath was so warm now, and at this distance, Uthred could see the lines of his eyes, the wrinkles of his skin, blue-black depths watching him in still, stunned silence. His skin seemed to burn beneath his fingers – and as the candle wobbled beside them, Uthred found himself looking at all of him, at the warm light dancing on his skin, at the dark circles beneath his eyes, at the curve of his nose and the grey-black of his beard, at the soft pink of his lips. They were sharing breath now, he knew that, and Alfred’s lips were parted a little, trembling softly, his tongue darting out now, for just a moment and-

And Uthred felt wrecked and ruined completely.

_Fuck him._

He could feel the beat of Alfred’s pulse beneath his fingers, a racing thrum against his skin.

_Fuck him._

Alfred’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Release me.”

And Uthred did. With a tear, he pushed Alfred away and twisted around, his feet surging away – because he could feel the sob burning behind his eyes now, his throat shut, his chest in grasps. He tried to suck in the air, to calm himself, but he could hear his breath trembling, and his feet was pacing now-

_Because how can he do this? How can he say this? How can he think-_

“How can you think this?” his voice sounded broken even to him, and he spun back on Alfred, as his feet kept moving and spinning, as his mind whirled and screamed, “How can you even think that, that I, that Aethelflaed-”

“You are not supposed to grab the king, Uthred. That’s treason,” Alfred said, and when Uthred looked at him now, he had almost completely fallen back into his usual stony façade – in a blink, he was smoothing down the crease of his collar, and adjusting the sleeves at his wrists, hands steady and calm. When he looked up, his face was composed and still again, and it was as if nothing had happened at all, that Uthred’s violence had somehow been completely inconsequential. The scrolls were still scattered everywhere, but Alfred seemed not to care.

Uthred could feel a strange shame burning, curling at the edges, for losing control like that – but the pain was too much, the ache overwhelming him completely.

He could barely look at him. 

“I have _never_ touched your daughter,” he growled, voice breaking, and he could feel the grief everywhere, in everything, and he hated him, he hated him so much, “This was never – Is this really what you think? That I did all of this because-”

“Because you are a heathen, yes,” Alfred replied, and his voice was so cool now, “It is the only answer for this.”

“For what? For serving you? Because that is what I did, serve you! That was why we went to Beamfloat. We went for-”

“For Aethelflaed-”

“No, for _you_. I went to Beamfloat for _you_ ,” and Uthred was yelling again, but he didn’t care, black claws choking his throat, “We, she, _fuck_ \- I have never looked at her. I have never thought of her in this way, how can I? How can you think- after all these years, how can you still think this of me?”

For a moment, Alfred did not reply – he just stood there, quiet, still as a pillar. It was as if all the anger from a moment before had never graced him at all, and now his hand folded behind his back, head held high, shoulders square, the king once again. His face was unyielding as stone.

A breath, and he spoke again, calm as ever.

“I told you,” he replied, “Because you are heathen. Because you do not believe in the One True God, despite everything.”

Uthred could no longer bare all this endless black grief inside of him. He could feel the tears burning through now, the room turning a little hazy with it.

Alfred looked beautiful in the candlelight.

His voice choked.

“And that makes me a monster in your eyes, Lord?” he asked, and he couldn’t stop his pacing feet, he couldn’t let him see him cry, rage and grief clouding every word, “You still believe that, after everything? You still believe I am the monster? Because I do not believe in _your_ God?”

“No,” Alfred said, voice growing quieter somehow, “I believe you Godless. I believe you serve nothing but yourself, Uthred, and Aethelflaed-”

“It was only about _you_ -”

“-is perhaps a worthy price for a man such as you,” he said, and he blinked away for a moment, as if to think, his voice so clear and calm now, “Perhaps you thought, in your way, that if you won the affections of a princess, married or not-”

Uthred slammed a fist against the nearest shelf. The snarl tore from his lips.

“How can you be so clever and so fucking stupid-”

“I saw you in the throne room!” and there was that frantic light again, flaring for just a moment in Alfred’s eyes, lips twisting again, “I saw her kiss you. And she has always cared for you, always, since she was a child. She’s always been infatuated with you.”

“She is a child.”

“And yet, you have always been free with your love of women, Uthred.”

“I have a wife, Lord.”

“Yes, and you had a wife too, when you were Iseult,” Alfred replied, and the anger was coming back, seeping through the cracks, voice turning harder and harsher with each word, “God’s law does not mean anything to you. Why would my daughter’s sanctity matter to you then?”

Uthred couldn’t understand what he was feeling anymore. He looked up to the ceiling, and turned away from him, into the dark of the room.

Black claws ripped into his chest.

“Because I am a heathen?”

The king’s voice was as sharp as a blade.

“Have you bedded her?”

And there was no point anymore.

For a moment, Uthred just stood there, staring up in the dark ceiling, into the black as the silence enveloped them both – because there was no point anymore, nothing he said would matter. He never should have come in here. He never should have talked to him, to look at him – because what was the point of any of this? What did he expect here? How could he have expected anything other than this _pain,_ this ache?

_Because this is what Alfred does._

_This is what he has done since the day we met._

_He ruins me._

_He always ruins me._

He pressed his hands quickly against his eyes, to force back the tears.

_I am ruined by him._

He breathed in the warm, musty air, and everything inside of him felt like dust, like ashes.

_I am a ruin._

“This is not about Aethelflaed is it?” Uthred said into the silence, and his voice was quiet now, grief laced through his bones, “You have – you have never trusted me.”

Alfred’s voice hit back, harsh like a storm.

“How am I to trust you? You lie-”

“Because I am a Dane?”

“No, because you lie and you sneak and you do whatever you want, without remorse. You serve yourself, Uthred!” he yelled now, voice hoarse, and Uthred could feel his eyes on his back, like black daggers.

He could feel defeat creeping onto him now, like black, shadow vines of the dark.

_I am a ruin._

Uthred turned back to him.

“You forced me,” and in the dark, something flashed across Alfred’s face now, a flicker of some emotion, then and gone without a pause, “You tricked me. You threatened my brother’s life, his freedom, and made me swear fealty to you in exchange for it.”

Alfred lifted his chin up, in defiance. His face was dead and blank as ever.

“It was necessary.”

Uthred could feel the pain in his bones now.

He was so tired. 

“You didn’t care that I was enslaved,” Uthred replied, and he didn’t feel angry anymore, he didn’t feel anything but ache anymore, “You had Ragnar save me from slavery, so you could force me to be your slave in turn. To serve you.”

Alfred did not even flinch.

“What other choice did I have? England needs you.”

He felt the empty, bitter smile dance across his lips.

“You could have asked.”

The king’s face barely moved.

“You would have said no. You would have left.”

Uthred’s smile widened.

“And I would have been right to,” he replied, and he couldn’t care about the grief anymore, it was a part of him now, this song, this pain, this ruin, “All you have ever done since we met is manipulate and humiliate and control me.”

In the murk, in the shivering candlelight, he thought he saw Alfred gulp.

“I am your king."

“Yes,” Uthred replied, and he was done now, “and I am the godless heathen man who sneaks and plots and sleeps with your daughter. Despite everything. Despite all these years. I am still the heathen. ”

And Alfred was silent in reply.

For a moment, they both just stood there, in the candlelight. Uthred watched every shadow, every line of Alfred’s face.

He didn’t want to feel anything anymore.

_I am a ruin._

“Then leave,” Alfred said, his voice abrupt and sharp in the dark.

Sorrow engulfed him completely.

“Leave,” Alfred said again, and his eyes were now black and furious, his voice cold and dead as the winter winds, “Is that what you want? Do you wish me to break your oath to me? Because-”

He stopped and sucked in a breath, harsh and quick in the night, and then spoke again, without a flicker.

“Because I will do it, Uthred,” he continued, and Uthred just looked at him without a word, “I will do it. I am weary of your insolence, of your Godless ways. I am weary of _you_.”

_I am a ruin._

“Is that you want? Do you wish to be released, Uthred, to be free?”

_I am a ruin._

“Do you wish to be free of me?”

_Never._

He let the pain take him away, out into the sea.

There was nothing left to fight for anymore.

“Always, my Lord,” Uthred said, and he smiled again at his king, “I wish we never met at all.”

And Alfred did not reply.

No one spoke at all.

In the quiet of the night, Uthred and Alfred watched each other, and no one dared to say another word. There was nothing left to say.

There was nothing left for them at all.

_Nothing but ruins._

It was time to go home.

Without a word, without any leave at all, Uthred turned around and walked out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so that's it for this one! I'm ending it here for now as the fic was always meant to be a self-contained study of what should have happened after 2x08. 
> 
> ANYWAY, this is going to be a prequel of sorts, as I'm starting a series for these morons. The sequel will be a fuller story, on a separate fic. Will update with that soon!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your comments and kudos! Cheers!


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